1. a. A bitter, aromatic gum resin exuded by various Arabian and African trees of the genus Commiphora (family Burseraceae), esp. C. abyssinica and C. myrrha, which was formerly important esp. in perfumery and as an ingredient of incense. Also in Pharmacol.: a tincture made from this, used medicinally as an astringent and expectorant. Freq., esp. in early use, with reference to the gift of myrrh to the infant Jesus. Less often used with reference to other Bible passages, esp. the Song of Solomon and the Gospel accounts of the Crucifixion.

b.fig. and in figurative contexts. Balm; sweetness; something which soothes, heals, or preserves.

-- Oxford English Dictionary

This time of year, we throw around the word myrrh a lot (at least while we're singing Christmas carols about the three wise men), but when you really look at all the meanings and uses and figurative allusions connected with this "aromatic gum," it is hard not to get a little overwhelmed by its multiple layers of significance -- especially for Christians. And when you consider how very, very old the word seems to be (the O.E.D. refers to an Akkadian -- that is, Mesopotamian -- word from nineteen centuries before Christ!), it is perhaps not surprising that the word has multiple resonances.

Myrrh was used widely as a perfume (as we are reminded in the Song of Solomon). It was also used as incense during religious ceremonies. For thousands of years it was also prized for its medicinal properties; it was thought to be especially beneficial as a soothing salve, having pain-relieving as well as inflammation-soothing qualities. Additionally, the ancient Egyptians were among many cultures that used myrrh in the embalming process; thus it has long been associated with death and the rituals that surround it.

So when you think about it, those magi really were pretty wise when they chose their gifts for the newborn Baby. They gave him gold -- always a good idea to give cash, especially since Mary and Joseph were soon to travel to Egypt (a spendy proposition). Frankincense is also a brilliant gift to give to the Holy Family -- valuable and portable, it could easily be traded for necessities; meanwhile their belongings (everything they owned, remember) would smell aromatic and fresh, even as they traveled on their long journey. And myrrh seems like a wonderful addition to a household medicine chest; who wouldn't want a pain-relieving balm to soothe an injured loved one?

But of course these three gifts have an even greater significance, don't they? Gold is obviously the right gift to present to a King. Frankincense (burned on the altar of sacrifice) reminds us of the perfect offering that was Jesus himself. And myrrh, presented at His birth, reminds of His death.

Did you know?

According to Science Daily, "researchers have identified a compound in myrrh that they believe could be developed into a potent anti-cancer agent. The compound, which kills cancer cells in the laboratory, shows particular promise for the prevention and treatment of breast and prostate cancer."

The resin of the myrrh tree is harvested by repeatedly wounding the tree. As the tree bleeds, the "tears" of resin are collected; they later harden into glossy chunks.

The same word that evolved in to myrrh also became Miriam, and thus Mary. So Mary can be translated as "bitter tears."

So what could be more perfect today than this lovely story? The Third Gift tells about a boy whose father collects and sells myrrh "tears." When three fantastically wealthy men come through the market looking for a perfect gift, the boy and his father are able to show them the best samples of myrrh among all the merchants. This is a great story on so many levels; it's just beautiful -- with lovely illustrations and a sweetly told tale. But as an afterward, the author also provides fascinating details about the harvesting and many uses of myrrh. Beautiful, inspiring, and educational -- a triple winner!

So at Thanksgiving, my sister's husband expressed great sorrow at the lack of mincemeat pie at our dessert table. Since we have never, in all our years, served mincemeat pie at Thanksgiving or at any other time, I must say his expression of dismay took me a little aback. And when you picture the apple pie, chocolate chess pie, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, ice cream, and widely strewn chocolate candies that we had all just gorged on, you can imagine the look on my sister's face (and mine -- we are very like) as we both responded. My sister actually only said one word. No, it was not that word. She reminded us, "Suet." So -- that was the end of that discussion.

My response was, "Dude, if you had wanted mincemeat at Thanksgiving, you should have put your request in at the beach last summer." Because mincemeat -- real mincemeat -- takes forever to make. And also? Gross. My sister wasn't kidding about the suet. Check out this post at the very fun blog, Hail, Britannia, which tells the aspiring pie maker just how to render her suet to remove the blood, connective tissue, and "other nasty bits." The pastor (my brother-in-law) didn't want to hear about that part!

Once you've got the suet, you're ready to make the mincemeat. Here is the way Mary Randolph (related by both birth and marriage to the noted colonial and Revolution-era family) described how to make it in her influential 1824 cookbook, The Virginia House-wife:

To make mincemeat for pies: Boil either calves or hogs feet until perfectly tender, rub them through a colander, when cold, pass them through again, and it will come out like pearl barley; take one quart of this, one of chopped apples, the same of currants, washed and picked, raisins, stoned and cut, of good brown sugar, suet, nicely chopped, and cider, with a pint of brandy; add a tea-spoonful of pounded mace, one of cloves and of nutmegs; mix all these together intimately. When the pies are to be made, take out as much of this mixture as may be necessary, to each quart of it add a teaspoonful of pounded black pepper, and one of salt; this greatly improves the flavor, and can be better mixed with a small portion than with the whole mass. Cover the moulds with paste, put in a sufficiency of mince-meat, cover the top with citron, sliced thin, and lay on it a lid garnished around with paste cut in fanciful shapes. They may be eaten either hot or cold, but are best when hot.

Mrs. Randolph doesn't tell her readers how to make the "paste" (pastry or pie-crust), and she doesn't tell us how long to bake the pie -- she assumes the ladies reading her book are not morons. The quantity of mincemeat the recipe would allow us to "put up" tells us that this batch of mincemeat, once made, would be set by in a pantry until it was needed -- properly stored mincemeat could be safely used weeks or months later, and many experienced cooks swore that the longer it sat in the pantry the more flavorful it would be.

Well, so if the idea of rendering suet so you can then boil up some beef or hog feet and put up jars and jars of mincemeat -- before you ever get to the part about the pie -- exhausts you, how about making some festive cookies instead? And for our calendar, here is a great cookbook with lots of Christmas-y recipes -- perfect for the church cookie exchange, or to take to that sweet host or hostess, or to leave in the faculty workroom at your kids' elementary school. Just make sure you keep some cookies to put out for Santa, too!

wassail, n. 1. A salutation used when presenting a cup of wine to a guest, or drinking the health of a person, the reply being drink-hail n.2. The liquor in which healths were drunk; esp. the spiced ale used in Twelfth Night and Christmas Eve celebrations. 3. A custom formerly observed on Twelfth Night and New Year's Eve of drinking healths from the wassail-bowl. Also [?] the person invited to drink from the wassail-bowl. 4. A carousal; riotous festivity, revelling. 5. A carol or song sung by wassailers; a wassailing or health-drinking song. -- Oxford English Dictionary

Most of us, if we have encountered the word wassail at all, have met it as we sing the carol, "Here We Come A-Wassailing." The origins that led to that Yuletide song, I am told, are very, very old indeed -- it appears in Beowulf ("in warriors' wassail and words of power") so there's that. The modern word wassail comes from the Anglo-Saxon toast "Wæs þu hæl," meaning "be thou hale" — or we might say "be in good health." The traditional response to this toast would be "Drinc hæl." The whole concept of wassailing clearly predates the Norman conquest of 1066. The roots of the word are found in Old Norse (ves heil) and Old English (was hál) meaning "be of good cheer." In its original meaning, the phrase did not necessarily limit itself to Christmastide.

Eventually, the wassail came to be understood as a ritual exchange between the lord of a manor and his tenants or vassals, at the turning of the year. The would-be recipients initiated this exchange, singing to make sure that everyone understood that "we are not daily beggars, that beg from door to door, / but we are friendly neighbors whom you have seen before." The lord of the manor responded by offering the wassailers food and drink. In return he received their blessing: "Love and joy come to you, / And to you your wassail, too, / And God bless you and send you / A happy new year!" The song "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" is clearly a wassailing song as well, as we see when we look more closely at the verses that demand figgy pudding: "We won't go until we get some, so bring some out here!"

Are you looking to serve some good old wassail to your caroling friends and neighbors? If so, you can serve up a concoction of mulled cider, perhaps simmered along with a fruity red wine. If you throw some cloves and a cinnamon stick or two into your pot, you will be close to the mead- or wine-based drink of the medieval period -- although that beverage was a frothy concoction that also included eggs and beer, with crab-apples floating on top.

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And here's an old-fashioned Christmas-y Advent book for you to read while you drink your wassail! The poet Dylan Thomas originally published this prose story in 1950, but his audio recording in 1952 has become a classic -- so classic that some people (by which I mean the book lovers at the Library of Congress) declare that this recording "launched the audiobook industry in the United States."

There are several illustrated versions of A Child's Christmas in Wales; I am sad to tell you that all of of them appear to be out of print. But that won't stop you, my book-loving friends! You will be able to find this book through a used book store, or at the library, or you might even find a recording of Dylan Thomas himself reading it to you -- which is actually the best way to encounter this lovely, nostalgic look back at Thomas's childhood memories of Christmas. Here's a sample of his poetry-drunk prose:

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor-car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: ‘It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and then we had tea.’

cloak'- room, n. : A room near the entrance of any place of assembly, in which cloaks, coats, hats, etc., may be left; also, in recent use, an office at railway-stations, etc., where luggage of any description is temporarily taken charge of. Also freq. euphem. = lavatory n.

--- Oxford English Dictionary

Well, so in the United States, we are often regaled with political stories of "behind the scenes" deals that are worked out in the cloakroom of the Senate or the House of Representatives. And I have to say, I always pictured these deals being negotiated while -- oh, let's imagine Lindsay Graham and Al Franken huddled together, seated uncomfortably on a big pile of galoshes, and surrounded by the heavy woolen overcoats of Barbara Milkulski and John McCain and Mitch McConnell.

Let's all pause a moment and picture that.

But it turns out that the euphemism cloakroom has its origins in the medieval truth that the heavy woolen cloaks and capes that everyone wore were difficult to launder, and were infested (like everything else) with fleas and lice. According to Lucy Worsley, chief curator of the British non-profit Historic Royal Palaces, and author of If Walls Could Talk, the solution was to hang cloaks and capes in the privy -- also called the close-stool, or garderobe (according to the O.E.D: French: a place where clothes and other items are stored [from guard robes] and also a medieval toilet). The widespread belief was that the ammonia that rose up from the urine in the privy would kill the fleas and lice infesting the cloak.

So -- to this day, cloakroom is another euphemism for toilet or bathroom or lavatory or powder room or necessary or W.C. (water closet) or latrine or privy or jakes or . . . . What I have actually discovered is that every word that we use for "the room in which people perform bodily excretion" is a euphemism: a word that someone somewhere along the way thought was a classier, more discreet word than the one their parents used.

It's something to think about when next you hear Speaker of the House Paul Ryan pronounce on television, "I met with my Republican colleagues in the cloakroom . . . "

1. A cleft staff about three feet long, on which, in the ancient mode of spinning, wool or flax was wound. It was held under the left arm, and the fibres of the material were drawn from it through the fingers of the left hand, and twisted spirally by the forefinger and thumb of the right, with the aid of the suspended spindle, round which the thread, as it was twisted or spun, was wound.

2. The staff or ‘rock’ of a hand spinning-wheel, upon which the flax to be spun is placed.

3. a. As the type of women's work or occupation. b. Hence, symbolically, for the female sex, female authority or dominion; also, the female branch of a family, the ‘spindle-side’ as opposed to the ‘spear-side’; a female heir. -- Oxford English Dictionary

The distaff is a symbol of a woman's never-ending work -- especially when you consider just how much stinking spinning a woman had to do to keep up with the needs of her household. Before the introduction of the spinning wheel, women kept the fluffy wool or flax or cotton they were spinning on the distaff -- which they held in their left hand (or in the crook of their left arm). In fact we sometimes see that "distaff" is a synonym for "left." A woman carried her distaff and her drop spindle with her wherever she went. Thus the O.E.D. makes clear that distaff is a synonym for woman -- because for thousands of years one would never have seen a woman without her distaff and spindle.

Spinning was such a required part of a community's life in the days before the Industrial Revolution that spinning was one of the few ways a woman could make her own money and perhaps live independently without a ruined reputation. Thus we also have the word "spinster" -- originally (as early as the fourteenth century) a description of a female's occupation, and eventually a legal term that referred to any unmarried woman. The derogatory meaning of the word evolved beginning in the eighteenth century, with the rise of factory spinning and looms, and the decline of the cottage-based profession. The Church of England, upon the reading of the banns for a marriage, described the unmarried woman as "a spinster of this parish" until 2005; the usage persists informally in many parishes.

1. Sometimes offensive. A married woman who manages her own household, especially as her principal occupation.

2. British. a sewing box; a small case or box for needles, thread, etc.

So it turns out that the word housewife is quite closely related, etymologically speaking, to the word hussy. Do you believe that shit? The word housewife goes all the way back to the thirteenth century in England, but an alternate pronunciation was hussif. By 1520 or thereabouts, a hussy was either 1. a brazen or immoral woman, or 2. a mischievous, impudent, or ill-behaved girl.